


Don't Leave Me

by vihistoo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, So much angst, but also fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 10:52:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2148000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vihistoo/pseuds/vihistoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock thinks that if he could just reach her, just touch her, he could make her understand how much he needs her here, with him, because he can't seem to voice what he knows is true, and she is so far away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Leave Me

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the poem, "Don't Go Far Off" by Pablo Neruda.

He is awake when Tom arrives. He shifts in Molly's bed to angle his head towards the door.

"Hello, Tom," he hears Molly say softly.

"Molly," Tom says, loudly, and Molly must flinch, or wince, because silence suddenly fills her flat.

"He's here, isn't he?" Tom asks lowly.

It is silent for a few moments, and he knows Molly will be shifting her weight, and biting her lip. He knows this is what Molly does when she's nervous.

"Yes," she says, and it is so quiet Sherlock almost doesn't hear it.

"For Christ's sake, Molly," Tom curses.

"Tom-"

"Why is he here? Doesn't he have his own bed? His own flat?"

"For whatever reason, he can only sleep when he's here. John just moved out, and it must be too quiet, or something like that. He feels comfortable here, Tom, he feels safe."

"This can't keep happening! We're engaged. It's ridiculous, Molly!" he says loudly, and Molly obviously reacts to his volume because he curses again.

"He's in your bed! _Our_ bed! The only reason I don't think you're both shagging each other behind my back is that he's some sort of freaky 30-year-old virgin!"

In Molly's bed, Sherlock's fists clench, and a hot spike of anger makes him grit his teeth.

"Don't you insult him! And don't you insult me. I would never cheat on you, Tom, but at the same time, I would never turn a friend away. I care about him, I worry about him. Sherlock is my friend, and I will always help him," Molly says heatedly.

"Oh please, Molly, we both know he's not just your friend. If you're going to carry on loving him, we might as well split, because there's no point in marrying a woman who loves someone else!" Tom exclaims.

"Tom," Molly begs. "Please, just-"

"And you know what? It's bloody pathetic, you pining after him like some schoolgirl. He doesn't care about you Molly, you mean nothing to him! He insults you around the clock, he uses you, tosses you around like some ragdoll, and you just let it happen! How do you expect us to be together when you follow him around like a whining dog! It's painful to watch!" Tom rants.

Sherlock sits up slightly, and the sheets slip down to his hips. _Not true, not true, not true_. In his mind, the image of pummeling his fists into Tom's face appeals greatly. _Molly Hooper is not pathetic, Molly is strong. She is not a schoolgirl, or a ragdoll, or a dog. She counts, I told her. Molly counts, she always counted._

"He doesn't love you, Molly!"

It is very quiet in the flat, and Sherlock quiets his own ragged breathing to heighten his hearing, easing his clenched fists out of their positions, where his nails have left crescent moons in his palms.

"Do you think I don't know that? Do you think a day passes where I'm not reminded I mean absolutely nothing to him?" Molly asks quietly.

Sherlock's breath stutters, and a chasm opens in his chest. He has heard Molly many different ways. He has heard her voice breathy with giddiness, low with focus, and wobbly with sadness, but he has never heard her voice so heavy, so pained, so _tired._

It seems to affect Tom as well, because when he next speaks, it is soft, and hesitant.

"Molly, I-that was completely wrong of me to say. You're not pathetic, and you're not a dog, it was- I just...I'm sorry." 

Molly sighs, a sad and desolate sound. "I'm tired, Tom. You should leave."

What Molly does next, he can't tell, but it it suddenly quiet again, and he hears Tom's sharp intake of breath.

"I've messed this up?" Tom asks slowly.

"We both have," Molly says sadly. "And I do love you. I wish things weren't the way they were."

"I love you too, Molly."

"I'm really sorry, Tom."

"Me too."

Sherlock sits up fully in the bed, now, listening intently. There is a rustle of clothing, then the door opens and closes. He doesn't hear Molly walk, but he knows she sits on the couch from the one loose and creaky spring.

His muscles tighten and his stomach feels hollow when she begins to sob quietly. He wants to get up, he wants to comfort her, but he doesn't know how, and he thinks this is a moment she needs for herself.

When she finishes, she heaves a great breath, and hauls herself up, the spring sounding with a high vibration that lowers as it slows. Her footsteps are soft on the carpet, and by the time Sherlock decides to pretend to be asleep, Molly has already turned the handle and entered the room.

They both pause when Molly's eyes connect with Sherlock, and he can see hers are watery, and there are shining trails where tears marked their paths down her cheeks. She looks down, then shuffles her way to the side of the bed, gathering a pillow and blanket, and when her left hand is visable, it is clear of an engagement ring. She turns, without a sound, and makes her way to the door. Sherlock is suddenly desperate for her to stay. He wants her warmth, her presence, her voice, and he panics when she steps beyond the doorway's edge.

"You love me," he says wildly.

It is not what she expected to hear, nor what he meant to say, but the words hang between them all the same. Their breaths are quiet in the stillness. She barely turns, just enough for Sherlock to see her profile, and her mouth has a sad tilt to it that makes his throat ache.

"Yes," she agrees. "And I always will. But I am so.. _.tired._..of loving you. Sometimes I wish I didn't. Sometimes I wish I never met you."

Sherlock sucks in a quick gulp of air, and his chest feels very crowded, as if stuffed with cotton. Molly sighs, and her shoulders sag like she holds the weight of the world.

"No, I...I didn't mean that," Molly breathes.

She adjusts the pillow in her arms and shifts her feet, tilting her head away from him. It looks as if for a moment she means to speak again, but she steps forward, and begins to walk down the hallway. Sherlock panics again, and his hands come up to pull his hair briefly. He attempts to speak, but the words catch in his throat, and he swallows and tries again.

"Wait, Molly. Don't go," he begs.

Molly doesn't turn around. "Why should I stay?"

Sherlock's hands clutch desperately at the sheets. He doesn't know what he's feeling, he's never felt like this before. There are no words he knows that are truthful enough, descriptive enough, to articulate the raw need he has for her. He wants her next to him, he wants to see her wearing his clothes, he wants to have her cook him breakfast, correct his work, sleep in his bed. He wants to kiss her, he wants her to brush the hair from his forehead, he wants to hold her and keep her with him. He wants her to smile at him, laugh with him, hang on his arm when they walk. He wants to kiss her cheek in the lab, play his violin for her in his flat, lay on her couch with his head in her lap and her running her fingers through his hair while he stews in his Mind Palace and she watches telly.

Sherlock searches his mind for the right words, the right combination to make her understand how much he doesn't want her to leave, and his hands run through his hair and pull at the strands like he's uprooting them for the answers. There is no logic in his need for her, and Sherlock is logic. If he could just reach her, the answers would be known to her in the run of his fingers over her, in the touch of his lips against hers, but she is far away, and now Molly is turning and sighing, her feet beginning to walk the path to her couch.

 

 

"Don't go far off, not even for a day, because -

because - I don't know how to say it: a day is long

and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station

when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep,"

 

 

Molly has stopped walking, and Sherlock's fingers twitch, and he spits out the next stanza, anything, anything to make her stay, and this poem seems like it might.

 

"Don't leave me, even for an hour, because

then the little drops of anguish will all run together,

the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift

into me, choking my lost heart.

 

 

 

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;

may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.

Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,

 

because in that moment you'll have gone so far

I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking, 

Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?"

 

It is stark silent long afterwards, and Sherlock's heart is beating so heavily he can feel the twitch of his pulse on the sheets where his hands are laying next to him. When Molly turns to face him, the tears have started anew, and they create glistening tracks, overlapping the ones that have already dried. Molly turns around completely and the light from the hallway spears around her, casting her in darkness. _Like a solar eclipse._ He's not sure why he remembers this, when he's forgotten all else about astronomy, but he deigns to remember it. He wants to remember everything about Molly. Her brown hair is spilling from her ponytail, and her brown eyes are shiny when they lock onto his. She seems to be searching for something, and Sherlock fights the entirely unnatural urge to look down, look away and bring the covers to his chin.

Finally, Molly looks to her feet, breaking the spell, and when she begins to move back towards the bedroom, Sherlock lets out a long, relieved breath. He is completely still as she replaces the pillow, throws the blanket over a chair, and slips under the duvet, turning on her side, away from him.

He is relaxed now, but there is still too much space between them, and that puts a weight in his stomach. He lays on his side as well, and reaches a long, pale arm towards her, his fingers grasping at her shoulder and turning her to face him. There is a weary acceptance to the way she is pliant under his touch. She neither denies him nor encourages him. Sherlock scoots towards the middle of the bed, and brings Molly to his chest, tucking her head under his chin and laying her hands on his chest.

When she shifts, he feels the acrid taste of rejection and embarrassment begin to form in the back of his throat, and a great exhale of relief is wrung from his lungs when she only moves closer, tangling her legs with his. He can feel her breath on his collarbone. He means to speak, but the words stick in his throat. She must feel some shift in his demeanor, must feel him swallow or lick his lips because her fingers lightly massage circles into his skin. He moves past the tingles her touch evokes.

"You count, Molly. You matter," he says, although his voice is low and hoarse. "To me. You count to me."

Nothing is said from her, and he pulls her closer, filling all the hills and valleys of his body with hers.

"Say it, Molly. You count," he demands.

She lets out a small puff of air. "I...I count," she says.

Her voice is small, and disbelieving. It is not good enough.

"Again, Molly."

"I count," she says steadily.

There is still doubt in Molly's voice, and hearing it make him squeeze her gently, and bury his nose in her hair; inhale her honey-scented shampoo. He holds her as she falls asleep, relaxing into his grasp completely and nuzzling her face into the crook of his shoulder and neck.

Sherlock does not sleep for a long while afterward, all thoughts on the warm, sleeping form cradled in his arms. The unsureness in her voice keeps replaying in his head, and he doesn't like that she doesn't believe him.

He makes a vow, then, that he won't stop making her say she counts until all the doubt is from her voice, until she says it strongly, with one of the bright smiles that have made a home on her face.

And when she does, he will be ready to tell her he loves her.

He knows he is lying to himself, because he is ready now, but she has had a long day, and she has fallen asleep, so he lays a kiss at her forehead, and breaths the words in her hair, hoping they find some place in her dreams.

He smiles softly and a warmth surrounds his body when she pushes closer into his chest and mumbles a sleepy, "I love you, Sherlock," into his skin, still in slumber. Her arm moves from his chest, and slides over his ribs to his back. There, she pulls him closer to her body, and he can't think of any place he'd rather be, and even though she is asleep, he whispers the words back to her, and hope she replies.


End file.
